The Hanged Man

by Simon Kernick

  She actually crossed her fingers before she made the call. If Wignall didn’t answer then she was pretty much back to square one.

  He didn’t. The phone rang and rang until eventually it went to voicemail. An electronic message asked her to leave a message, so she did, giving all the relevant details, so that Wignall, or whoever picked up the message, could check her out. Then she went off to make another coffee, wondering whether she should call Ray or not. They hadn’t spoken since the previous evening, and he’d texted later to say he and Dan were working late.

  The coffee was still brewing and she was halfway through sending him a text to say she was back home safely and looking forward to seeing him for supper when the phone rang.

  It was Ken Wignall.

  ‘You’re not the Tina Boyd, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘Are you the Ken Wignall?’

  ‘That I am,’ he chuckled.

  He sounded, Tina thought, like a nice guy. He would be in his seventies now but he seemed lively and cheerful. She just hoped his memory was on the ball.

  ‘I wanted to ask you some questions about the death of Brian Foxley,’ she said, giving him the same cover story she’d used with Pauline, claiming she’d been hired by a former client of his to look into the case.

  ‘He took his time, didn’t he?’ said Wignall. ‘It happened forty years ago.’

  ‘Some new evidence has come to light which I’m not at liberty to disclose.’

  ‘Why aren’t the police involved then?’ asked Wignall, and Tina realized he wasn’t going to be fobbed off very easily.

  ‘Well, I’m hoping they will be, but I just wanted to get your own thoughts on what happened. As you know, the police concluded it was a murder/suicide.’

  ‘That never rang true for me,’ Wignall said immediately. ‘I remember Brian was working for Mary Sinn – you know, the mum of that poor girl Kitty whose remains were dug up a few months back. This isn’t anything to do with that, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Tina.

  ‘Brian asked me to check out Robert Sheridan, Mary Sinn’s brother-in-law,’ continued Wignall. ‘He thought Sheridan had killed his wife. I was a PC but there wasn’t much I could do. Sheridan didn’t have a criminal record. He didn’t have a proper job either, the lazy sod. He preferred to live off his wife who, as you probably know, came from wealthy stock. He was a sponge, but that was about all you could say about him.’

  ‘What did Brian think of him?’

  ‘Brian was very suspicious. He told me he’d found out that Sheridan knew some very dangerous people – gangster types – and they were involved in all sorts: devil worship, orgies, that kind of malarkey. He told me Sheridan certainly didn’t seem like a man in mourning, and he’d got some young live-in nanny as well for the kids who Brian was sure he was having an affair with.’

  Tina frowned. She knew from the Bone Field case that the killers had an interest in the occult. Perhaps Alastair had got his from his father. ‘But did he have any evidence at all that Sheridan had murdered his wife?’

  ‘Nothing that I ever heard about.’

  Tina sighed louder than she’d intended. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need more than this before I can persuade the police to reopen the case.’

  Wignall was silent for a few seconds. ‘Brian was scared, I remember that. He thought he’d stumbled on to something pretty bad, but when the investigating team searched his office after his death, they didn’t find a file on the case. I remember thinking that was strange because I know Brian had been working on Janet Sheridan’s death for at least three months, and I know Mary Sinn paid for him to fly out to wherever it was where Mrs Sheridan had her car accident. So it was a pretty big case for him.’

  ‘But didn’t Mary go to the police after Brian’s death and tell them her suspicions if she thought her sister’s death was murder?’

  ‘No. I told the investigating team about Brian’s investigation, and a couple of them went and questioned Mary, but as far as I know she either didn’t want to cooperate or whatever she said wasn’t enough to reopen the case.’

  Tina thought about this. The only reason Mary Sinn would have clammed up so suddenly was if she’d been afraid, either for her own life or that of her daughter. Kitty would only have been about seven at the time, and the killings of Brian Foxley and his wife would have scared her. Perhaps Mary had been told she and Kitty would be next if she didn’t keep quiet. It stood to reason, given the ruthlessness of the people involved.

  But it also gave Tina an idea. ‘Was Brian the sort of private detective who would have given his clients regular progress reports?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Wignall, without hesitation, ‘definitely. He was a very diligent bloke.’

  ‘What do you think happened to those progress reports?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. It was all such a long time ago. I still think of him, you know.’

  Tina knew she wasn’t going to get much more from him. ‘Look, thanks for your help, Mr Wignall, I appreciate it.’

  ‘If he was murdered, will you find out who was responsible?’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can,’ Tina assured him.

  ‘I know you will. I know your reputation. You get stuff done.’

  Tina ended the call and sat back, feeling deflated. Where once she’d been a high-ranking murder squad detective with a string of scalps under her belt, now she toiled alone out on the periphery, away from all the action. Which was probably why she was putting so much effort into a forty-year-old case that was paying her nothing on a day when she could have been out walking in the sunshine. Because she still wanted to prove herself to a world that had passed her by.

  She lit a cigarette and thought about the progress reports Brian Foxley would have sent to Mary Sinn. It was possible they’d never existed, but Tina thought this unlikely. If Foxley had been working the case for anything close to the three months Ken Wignall had estimated, and had flown to Italy as part of the job, he’d have had to give Mary something in writing to show her what he was doing for the money she was paying him.

  So what would Mary have done with those documents? If she’d been threatened by someone, she wouldn’t have given them to the police. She might possibly have handed them over to whoever was threatening her. But if Tina had been Mary, she would have kept any evidence against her sister’s killers somewhere secure just in case she ever got the opportunity to use it. It would have been too unsafe at home. So she’d have given them to someone for safekeeping. Someone she could trust.

  Like a solicitor.

  Tina didn’t know if Mary Sinn had had a family solicitor but her own parents had used the same solicitor for more than thirty years on those few occasions they’d needed one. Tina also knew there would have been plenty of news stories centring on the Sinn family around the time Kitty disappeared in 1990, so she went on the National Archives website and trawled through all the available articles until she found one from the Northamptonshire Telegraph, dated 12 August, in which a man identified as Mary Sinn’s solicitor – a Mr John Howard of ACB Howard and Co. – appealed for her to be left in peace after a number of incidents involving reporters camping outside the family home.

  A quick search on the Law Society database revealed that the firm was still active and based in Market Harborough.

  It was a huge long shot, and Tina had no doubt that John Howard had long since retired. Even so, she called the switchboard number, introduced herself to the youngish-sounding man at the other end, and explained as briefly as possible why she was phoning.

  ‘Let me put you through to the senior partner,’ he said.

  After a minute or so a woman came on the line. ‘I understand you want to talk to John Howard.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m a private detective. My name’s Tina Boyd.’ Tina started to explain what it was about but the woman cut her off.

  ‘Yes, I recognized your name,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid John died eight years ago. Bu
t perhaps I can help. I’m his daughter, Barbara Howard. We worked together for a number of years.’

  Tina relaxed a little. Barbara sounded friendly, interested even. ‘I’m doing some work on the Kitty Sinn murder case, and I know your father was Mary Sinn’s solicitor.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. For almost twenty years. Right up until her death in fact.’

  Tina decided to come clean. ‘Well, forty years ago Mary hired a private detective to find out whether or not her sister was murdered. A few months after taking the case, the private detective allegedly stabbed his wife to death then hanged himself. Both cases were closed, one as an accident, the other as a murder/suicide. I wondered if Mary ever talked about either case to your father, or gave him any documents relating to them.’

  There was a long silence at the other end. Tina was wondering if she’d moved away from the phone when Barbara spoke again.

  ‘I think I can help you,’ she said.

  Thirty-four

  ‘DCI Olafsson tells me that the two of you, while acting as observers, apprehended and arrested Ugo Amelu, during which two shots were fired. But apparently, according to your statements, both discharges were accidental.’

  Dan and I were back in Sheryl Trinder’s office, nursing strong coffees and feeling the effects of a long night. It didn’t seem to be affecting her though. She was as alert and bullish as ever on this Friday morning, watching each of us carefully as she spoke, and her words were laced with scepticism.

  ‘That’s right, ma’am,’ said Dan, and we both nodded.

  ‘I got there first,’ I said. ‘We were wrestling and the gun went off twice. It fell out of Ugo’s hand and we arrested him.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said Sheryl, leaning forward and steepling her hands as if in prayer, ‘that neither of you even pushed for an attempted murder charge. Especially as Mr Amelu isn’t cooperating at all with the arresting officers. He’s answered “no comment” to every question that’s been put to him, and DCI Olafsson’s furious.’

  ‘But the op was a success, ma’am,’ I said. ‘One of the chief suspects is dead and Ugo’s in custody so there was no point in either of us lying about him trying to shoot us.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you’re lying, Mr Mason, but I do wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me. Because there you were yesterday telling me how important it was you spoke to Mr Amelu, yet today neither of you seem especially worried that he’s not cooperating.’

  There was no way of course that we could come clean. We’d made our statements at Ealing, pissing off Olaf hugely in the process, and it was far too late to change our stories now. This didn’t mean that we couldn’t give Sheryl something, however, and we’d both agreed the previous night what that something should be.

  ‘We had a few minutes with Ugo before he was taken away,’ said Dan, ‘and he gave us a snippet of information off the record. He told us that Kristo Fisha stole the DVD of Tracey Burn’s murder from Alastair Sheridan’s house.’

  Sheryl’s eyes widened, but she looked more annoyed than pleased. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Apparently, Fisha broke in and stole it. He had some dispute with Sheridan about a woman. That’s all he was prepared to say.’

  ‘But he won’t testify,’ I added. ‘Well, unless we offer him immunity, of course. Then he might.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’ She glared at me. ‘And I hope you didn’t offer Mr Amelu your own deal. Because if you did, you’ll both be up for gross misconduct.’

  I shook my head. ‘No one offered him anything. We didn’t have time.’

  ‘So why did he cooperate with you? And now, suddenly, he won’t.’

  ‘Because it was off the record.’

  ‘I was sat on top of him at the time, ma’am,’ said Dan. ‘I’d just disarmed him. He was scared. He seemed to want to talk.’

  Which wasn’t entirely true, but seemed plausible enough. I was sorely tempted to tell her about Manning too but I knew that would really give us away. Instead I asked if there was any news on him.

  ‘Nothing yet, Mr Mason,’ Sheryl answered, ‘and don’t change the subject. If I find out you’ve bent the rules in any way, you’re gone. I appreciate the efforts you’ve put in so far, and the fact that both of you put yourselves in the line of fire last night, but I’m not having either of you ruin this investigation by ignoring the law. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal, ma’am.’

  She seemed about to say something else but at that moment there was a knock on the door, and an officer I didn’t recognize put his head into the room. ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we’ve got a call from a woman who has information about Tracey Burn. She sounds authentic.’

  This got everyone’s attention. Because Tracey Burn had now been confirmed as the first Bone Field victim to be positively identified, her disappearance was getting round-the-clock media attention, which meant the twenty-four-hour hotline was being inundated with calls from the public, even though she’d been dead at least eleven years. The calls were being sifted by the hotline staff so only those considered of real interest were put through to Dan and me.

  This was the first.

  Sheryl nodded brusquely. ‘Thank you. Patch it through to my phone. Mr Mason, you take it.’

  As the call came through, I picked it up and introduced myself.

  ‘Hello,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘My name’s Martha Harvey. Mrs. I think I might have some information about that poor girl, the one they found at the farmhouse in Wales.’

  ‘Thanks for calling, Mrs Harvey,’ I said, trying to put her at ease. ‘You’re talking about Tracey Burn?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her. The woman on the news. I live in a village called Pittonslow in Hampshire, between Salisbury and Winchester. A long time ago I saw her there. She was staying with Anthea Delbarto.’

  ‘And who’s Anthea Delbarto?’

  ‘She’s a lady who lives in the village. She has a big house and she occasionally takes girls in – you know, vulnerable ones who’ve run away from boyfriends. That kind of thing. She’s been doing it for years. Anyway, I saw Tracey Burn once when I was out walking the dog. She was out on her own and she told me that she was from London and she was staying with Anthea for a while to get back on her feet. She seemed very nice.’

  ‘And did you see her again?’

  ‘No, that was the only time. The girls who stay at Mrs Delbarto’s tend to keep themselves to themselves. But one of the women in the village, Ingrid Riley, she remembers seeing Tracey as well.’

  ‘Do you know how long she was there for?’

  ‘I don’t, but the girls usually stay with Anthea for a bit.’

  ‘And it was definitely Tracey Burn you saw?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said emphatically.

  But even if she hadn’t been certain it wouldn’t have mattered. It had to be her. We’d released certain information to the public, including the approximate date she’d gone missing, and the fact that she lived in London, but there’d been no mention of the fact that she might have been living in a shelter for victims of domestic abuse.

  Tracey Burn had definitely been at this shelter, I was sure of it.

  Thirty-five

  Hugh Manning rued the day he met Alastair Sheridan.

  At the time he’d been an up-and-coming corporate lawyer working for a well-established firm in the City and, even though he was not yet thirty, he’d already developed a reputation as a financial whizzkid, and was being compensated accordingly with a generous six-figure salary and plenty of benefits. The future had looked bright.

  The meeting had happened one night at a networking evening run by a lawyer friend of his. Manning didn’t usually bother attending such events. He didn’t need to network. People came to him. But this particular one was in a private room at the Mandarin Oriental in Hyde Park, and promised to be lavish, as befitted probably the most luxurious hotel in London. And Manning was never one to turn down free champag
ne and food. However, he hadn’t been enjoying it particularly and had just been about to make his excuses and leave when he was confronted by a tall, avuncular-looking chap in a top-end suit. He had a shock of boyish blond hair and a broad smile. They say the devil wears the best disguises, and with Alastair Sheridan it was absolutely true. Manning had liked him on sight, and they’d quickly got talking.

  Alastair had told him about his newly set-up investment fund that was expanding rapidly, and making returns of 25 per cent per annum. Manning had been intrigued, but not enough to leave his current firm. They’d stayed in touch and become good friends. They played golf together, even went out on double dates with their respective partners.

  But it had soon become clear that Alastair had an edge to him. He liked to be unfaithful and enjoyed the company of hookers. And Manning found himself all too willing to get involved. One night the two of them had hired a hooker and had sex with her together. Manning wasn’t yet with Diana so he hadn’t felt too guilty, and in truth, he’d found it one of the most exciting experiences of his life. He and Alastair began to make a habit of it. Hire a whore, fuck her. Sometimes humiliate her too. Make her do things for extra money. Manning knew this was bad, but if a man like Alastair – friendly, affable, charming – could do it then somehow it didn’t feel too wrong.

  In the end it had seemed like a natural progression for Manning to come and work with Alastair, whose fund continued to do well and had somehow managed to avoid the downturn in equities post 2000.

  It was, of course, the single worst decision he’d ever made.

  But credit to him, Harry Pheasant had at least come up with a plan that could offer Manning a way out. It meant cooperating with the police. It meant testifying against his former employer and one-time friend in a court of law. But if things worked out the way he hoped, he might just avoid jail time and live long enough to get into witness protection.